


Slither

by JPeterson



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Incest, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Sister/Sister Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPeterson/pseuds/JPeterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gloves are soft, but Elsa's hands are softer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slither

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prompt response on Tumblr:  
> "I have wrists fetish. Especially inner wrists. Can you add soft or loving gestures like rubbing or kissing inner wrists in future elsanna fic?"

When you enter the study, it’s obvious why you haven’t seen her since dinner. She really is entirely too dedicated to her work (if there is such a thing, concerning her position), but at least she manages to even make sleeping while slumped over a desk look attractive. Okay, so it might be the shifting glow of the firelight or the cool reflection of moonlight against the snow-covered windowsill outside, or the way both of those play off of pale skin and paler hair. It might be the almost inaudible rush of even breathing, the gentle sound of silk against paper when her fingers curl, or the soft murmur of her voice in response to whatever she’s dreaming.

How in the world she  _can_  dream when she’s in such an uncomfortable-looking position is beyond you, but since you remember your parents teasing you about falling asleep on horseback once upon a midnight dreary, you suppose that you aren’t really one to talk. Or think. Whatever.

You hate that she still wears the gloves after everything that’s happened. You  _understand_ , and at least she doesn’t wear them all the time, but you still hate it. So you perch on the desk in front of her and pick up the hand that isn’t tucked under her head; carefully lifting it into your lap and running your fingertips over the white silk that covers her skin.

The silk is soft, but her hands are softer – something you know intimately from feeling them on your own skin in a variety of places – and you want to feel the texture of her palms, so you start picking at the fine fabric at the very tips of her fingers. She’s a surprisingly light sleeper for someone who can drop off in such odd positions, so you’re being very careful as you pluck at the white silk. Each finger is given the same, slow treatment, and the study is so quiet that you feel you can actually  _hear_  the material dragging over her skin.

When the hem of the glove starts slipping over the back of her hand, she stirs enough for you to pause with two fingers pinched around the silk that covers her index finger. She doesn’t wake, though; just gives a tiny, breathy moan and flexes her hand in yours. She’s frowning much like the way she does when she thinks you’re teasing her too much, and it’s so cute that you have to lean over enough that you can kiss the underside of her wrist.

This is probably one of the spots on her body where her skin is the absolute softest, so you linger there, barely touching your lips to the pulse you can feel and drawing in a slow, quiet breath full of her scent. There are the faintest of indents below the base of her palm, and you trace them with delicate kisses while you continue to tug slowly at the glove, finger by finger, until it comes off in your hand. The silk is still warm from her skin – a little less than it would be from yours – and you hold onto it for a few moments before settling it on the knee you have folded on top of the desk to better turn towards her.

You know exactly why you’re so fascinated with her bare hands, and you gently stroke the skin of the one you’re holding from the tips of her fingers to the spot where her veins fully disappear on her forearm. You brush gentle lines over the inside of her palm again just to feel the way her fingers curl reflexively, and smile at the soft sigh she emits when you turn her hand over and press slow kisses to her knuckles. She grumbles a little when you trace feathery touches over the inside of her wrist – it probably tickles - but the furrow in her brow is cute enough that you’re not too concerned about waking her up.

Which, of course, is exactly what happens.

“Hey,” you whisper when she shifts, and trail your fingers through long, wispy bangs when sleepy blue eyes flutter open. “Come on, Your Majesty. Bedtime for queens.”

“Hmm.” She looks vaguely catlike when she stretches lazily, and the impression is only strengthened when she tugs your entwined hands closer and rubs her cheek against your knuckles before kissing them. “And princesses?”

“Definitely princesses, too,” you agree, and quirk an eyebrow. “Especially ones who didn’t get to snooze the entire evening away.”

That earns you a light nip to the tip of your finger, and she chuckles at your squeak before kissing the skin just below your palm. “Princesses should remember that they also sleep several more hours in the mornings.”

“Phhbt.” You get to your feet and tug on her hand until she’s rising, and when she steps around the desk – all feminine grace and innate charm – you could forget all about the concept of bedtime but for the fact that it includes a bed. Then those soft hands - both of them ungloved now – are cradling your face, and your lips meet in a lazy give-and-take that still manages to steal the breath from your lungs because that’s just what she  _does_  to you.

“Come on, Your Highness,” she reminds you when you break apart, and chuckles at what’s probably a pretty dazed expression on your face. “Bedtime for princesses.”

“Right, right.” Your fingers twine before you even start walking, and the door closes behind you with a soft  _snick_. “Any chance of detour past the kitchens?”

Elsa just rolls her eyes fondly, and tugs you in the right direction.


End file.
